


District 2

by bradmikedan



Series: District 2 [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies), The Hunger Games (Movies) RPF
Genre: Careers (Hunger Games), District 2, District 2 (Hunger Games), District 2 Academy, District 2 Careers, Hunger Games, Hunger Games Academy, Hunger Games References, Hunger Games Tributes, Hunger Games Victors, Inspired by The Hunger Games, M/M, Pre-Hunger Games, Teen M/M, Teenagers, Tributes, Victors, hunger games prequel, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:00:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22853620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bradmikedan/pseuds/bradmikedan
Relationships: Cato (Hunger Games)/Original Character(s), Cato (Hunger Games)/Original Male Character(s), Cato (Hunger Games)/Other(s)
Series: District 2 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642957
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3
Collections: Random Hunger Game Stories





	District 2

The journey from my village to the centre of District 2 takes nearly two days, even by truck.

The road we follow is rocky. It winds around the feet of mountains, circles the shores of vast lakes, crosses bridges that span wide valleys and rivers, that skim the tops of sparse forests.

It's my first time riding in a truck, and it isn't long before I'm sick.

Before sunset on the first day, we enter the only pass through the mountains. It's here that the roads become the narrowest, the most winding. Here, the shadows start to appear, after the sun sinks behind the ridges. Creeping from chasms surrounded by the highest peaks, the cracks between the cliffs where daylight never reaches.

From here on, there's nowhere to stop, so we drive through the night. The road turns foggiest just before dawn, when the jagged rocks start playing tricks with my mind. By now, shadows are everywhere. In the pools of darkness that drown our headlights. In the blurred shapes of boulders and trees. Now and then a shadow appears on the road, waiting as we speed towards it, waiting to be hit, but then bleeding away into mist.

Late on the second day, since the weather has been good and we've made good time, the road finally winds its way out of the hills and into the outskirts of the District's main city. Here, the familiar trees and cliffs give way to blank grey walls of factories and buildings that line the wide streets, the gaping city squares that could swallow my village whole.

The truck turns sharply into a large square, ringed with buildings I recognise from television, but which loom even larger than in my imagination.

First the Justice Building, a behemoth of white marble that they say took hundreds of stonemasons over a decade to build. Then the train station, so vast that it appears only as a long wall of solid glass as we travel alongside it, its facade stretching the full length of the street.

As we leave the main square, the road climbs out of the city back towards the hills, and the Academy appears. Grey granite columns protrude from the cliffside, as the building reveals itself from behind by high stone walls.

The sun begins to set as we pass through a heavy iron gate. Behind us, shadows consume the solitary mountain that hangs over the entire city like a gathering storm.

***

It's still dark when Marcus returns, closing the door quietly behind him.

"Sorry, Cato."

"It's fine. I was up anyway."

"The nightmares?"

"Yeah, the same ones."

He sighs. "Still? It's been weeks."

Not weeks. Months. Every night since my first night at the Academy. But we have an agreement, my roommate and I. I don't ask where he comes back from at this hour of the morning, and he doesn't ask about my nightmares. Perfect.

Marcus shrugs off his jacket, lifts his shirt over his head. Sits at the edge of his bed and starts unlacing his boots.

"Get up. We need to leave before it's bright."

I blink out the grimy window towards the lights in the valley below, beyond the Academy's walls. A trail of haze hangs between the city and the mountains. If there's one thing I hate most about the city, it's the constant brightness, the sky devoid of stars.

While Marcus empties a thick stream of piss into the sink near the door, I finish packing the bag that we stocked the night before. Hefting it onto my shoulder, I turn to find Marcus searching under his bed. He emerges, triumphant and grinning, a thick roll of leather in his hand.

"Ready?"

"Yeah, ready."

Marcus leads me down the dormitory corridor, up the stairs, then along a colonnade lined with tall arched windows. Checking that that we're alone, he steals into a small door, a nearly-forgotten entrance to one of the rear towers. His feet are swift and silent against the cold stone. From here, a winding staircase takes us down to a disused service courtyard. We duck beneath the lit windows of kitchens already bustling with breakfast preparations.

On the other side of the courtyard there's a metal gate, a chink in the Academy's armour. It's secured shut with rusty chains. My heart quickens for a moment, but the chains untangle easily under Marcus's deft fingers. The gate swings open with a metallic creak and, our nerves breaking under the sudden noise, we sprint, laughing, toward the trees.

We run until we lose sight of the Academy behind the trees and the rise of the hill, then continue up the remainder of the slope in silence. It's not until we reach the top of the ridge that I realise how hard my heart is slamming in my chest, or that I'm still laughing in between heavy breaths.

"How did you know about that gate?"

"Found it a few nights ago, while I was out." I don't expect him to say where. He never does. Below us, the Academy is just a patchwork of shale roofs.

"Come on, we're still too close."

We descend the other side of the ridge. The woods here are thicker, but even with the trees blocking out most of the grey pre-dawn light, Marcus finds his way to a dry creek bed. It's so quiet here, our boots skidding on loose pebbles the only sound. For a moment, I forget the noise of trucks, of trains, of the voices of hundreds of cadets echoing off stone walls. And then, a low murmur breaks the silence. The familiar sound of water tumbling over rocks.

The creek bed opens out into a stream, flowing cold and quick, but shallow enough to leap across from rock to rock. As soon as I'm on the other side, I turn back and gaze through the clearing in the canopy. Overhead, two stars blink defiantly against the lightening purple of the sky.

"Do you miss it?" he asks.

"Miss what?"

"All of this. Being in the mountains."

My father had been a stone miner. So had his father, and his father before him. Masonry was the backbone of District 2, and mountains were all we'd ever known. The stone hut that my father built my mother on the side of the steep gravel road. The twinkling lights of our village in the crease of the valley. The quarry where we lived and worked, after my mother died. They all seem so far away, now.

Marcus sits on the ground and unfurls the leather roll. Reflecting the bare light, a flash of gold catches my eye. My expression goes from awe to confusion to fear.

"Where did you get that?" He knows as well as I do that weapons are banned at the Academy.

"Don't worry, it's a present from my father." He grins, clicking the two halves of the spear's shaft together. A golden point slots neatly onto the end.

Of course, some rules don't apply when you're the Mayor's son.

We eat breakfast by the stream, sharing the bread and apples that I tucked into my bag under the table last night, when the other cadets weren't paying attention. Marcus takes out a block of something dark and sweet, a gift from one of the Peacekeepers. The small piece he hands me is sweeter, richer than any dessert I've ever eaten.

"It's called chocolate. From the Capitol. I wanted you to try it."

Taking up his spear, he walks down to the pebbled flat at the stream's bank. In his hands, the gleaming metal becomes a natural extension of his arm, the spear and his blonde hair a continuous blur of gold amongst the sidelong rays of the rising sun.

The first time he returned from drills, months ago, I asked him why he trained so much. He had left for drills so early that morning, and was back so late now that he'd missed dinner.

"So I can win the Games," he said.

I was shocked by his certainty, the honesty of his answer. There was no lie or doubt in his voice. He was going to compete in the Games, and he would win.

"How do you know you'll even be chosen?" I asked.

"Of course I will," he said, simply. "My father said so."

I couldn't imagine being that sure about anything in my entire life. Not that long ago, I was sure that I would be always be a miner, a miner's son. But then even that small certainty had been taken from me.

When he returned from drills the next day, I asked if he would teach me how to fight. This time, he asked me why. I wasn't going to be a Peacekeeper or a Volunteer like him, he said, and besides, District 2 would never be short of Volunteers.

I told him that I wanted to learn, that I _needed_ to learn. In the quarries, I had always been skinny, but strong for my size. Here amongst the Academy's cadets, well-fed on three meals a day, that strength didn't count for much. I had seen enough scuffles break out to know it was only a matter of time before I would need to hold my own in a fight. So, he agreed.

Now, watching the exact turns of his wrist that cause the spear to sing through the morning air, the lightning speed of his limbs, the dust that rises in clouds around his flickering feet, I realise why he had been so certain. No matter how hard I train, I will never be able to fight like him.

With a tall stick standing in as my weapon, he teaches me how to grasp a spear, the stances I should take. Then footwork, our boots tracing invisible dance steps across the pebbled ground. When he puts his cool hand on top of mine to adjust my grip, I quickly need to wipe my sweaty palms on my uniform. He laughs, a sound as clear and bright as the sun in the stream. He shows me how to block, and with each strike his spear rings across the clearing.

We toss our jackets aside. I wipe my brow on my sleeve. The sun has come up over the tallest peaks, and is now beating down fiercely against the back of my neck. Marcus motions for me to circle around for another strike, reminds me to pay attention to my feet. As I move, sunlight floods my vision, and I'm blinded for a moment. That's when I see him.

At first he's not even a shadow, little more than a shimmer, a trick of the light reflecting off the water. But he grows as he moves through the trees, becoming as tall as the shadow that waits at the end of my bed.

As he draws closer, my eyes widen in horror. Emerging from the trees, I can see clearly his hair matted to his skull, tangled with the blood pouring from the gaping wound at the back of his head. In a blink, he's so close that I smell the reek of his pallid flesh, of his icy-cold breath that freezes my feet to the ground.

A rattling moan escapes his jaw, hanging slack. With a bony, papery hand, he reaches toward me. I try to scream, but the sound catches in my throat, all the air sucked from my lungs.

I don't see the spear. Only hear the crack as it shatters bone. It's a sound I know too well, the same sickening sound as when his skull struck the stone floor.

The pain is excruciating. Still, I'm unable to scream. My feet tangle. I tumble backwards, slipping on gleaming white tiles running slick with water and blood.

***

I remember the first time I ever saw Marcus Flint. It was on television, years ago. Standing on a dais next to his father, Mayor Atticus Flint, I remember him even then as tall, fair-skinned and fair-haired. He held a crown of golden laurel leaves to present to the Victor of that year's Games, the boy from District 2.

He looked like he was about my age, though somehow older, surer than I was. He didn't fidget during the long speeches, and his hands didn't shake when he placed the crown on the Victor's head, like I was sure mine would have. When the Victor stood again, Marcus looked him in the eye without an ounce of deference. The Victor made a quip at him, and Marcus retorted, his voice proud and full of wit. The audience laughed. Then the two of them started to wrestle, right there on the stage, to the delight of the cameras.

"You know, rumour is that's Lyme's boy," said one of the miners watching.

My father looked at him in disbelief. "Lyme, the Victor? I thought she was dead."

"She is. Overdosed on booze and drugs, the whole lot. But before that, they took her to a Capitol. Life of luxury, she had there. That's when they had their affair, her and Flint, back when he was still just Head Peacekeeper. Capitol Whisperers were talking about it non-stop. And now, they say that there's their son: Marcus."

We all leaned closer to the small, grainy television that glowed bright in our underground mess room, watching as the young boy wrestled the mighty Victor to the ground. The whole District chanted his name.

"Well I'll be. Marcus Flint, the Mayor's son, son of a Victor. I'll bet he becomes a Victor too, someday."

***

The fact that he is the son of a Victor and of the Mayor is the only reason Marcus isn't expelled.

The only reason I'm not expelled is that I have nowhere else to go.

Ignatius knows this. So after he helps Marcus carry me, broken and limping, back down the hill to the infirmary, he only confiscates Marcus's spear, with a stern warning to both of us never to train without the Drillmaster again.

"And if anyone asks about Cato, he's a clumsy bastard. He slipped and fell in the showers."

No one asks. Aside from Marcus having to carry my tray for me in the mess hall, I don't think anyone even notices. He sets my tray down next to his. Around us, a dozen boys jostle for room at Marcus's table. I'm pressed into him, glad at least that he's sitting on the same side as my cast.

At the sound of the bell, he takes my bag, even though I'm still capable of carrying that myself.

"It's only a broken arm," I protest.

It doesn't matter, he's already gone ahead. When I catch up to him in the next class, he's saved me a seat beside him. Even tells Deon and Talon, his best friends, to sit elsewhere. It's the same at every class for the rest of the day. By lunchtime, I decide that though he feels bad for breaking my arm, with all of his pride, this is how he makes up for it.

Marcus only hands my bag back just before drills. Tells me he's no longer going to train on the Parade Ground with the other cadets. "The Drillmaster has orders to not let anyone else train with me, anymore," he explains.

"It makes sense. If you're going to win the Games, you can't give your strategies away."

He shrugs, embarrassed. "I guess. I'll see you at dinner."

At the Parade Ground, the Drillmaster takes one look at my broken arm and sends me away. With nowhere else to go, I wander towards Ignatius's office, high up on the fifth floor of the officers' wing. The two Lieutenants who share his office aren't there, so he lets me in, pulling up a chair for me in front of his desk by a tall window.

I tell him about Marcus, and the Drillmaster. He knows about Marcus, of course, but still nods intently. I tell him how much I hate drills.

"What would you prefer to be doing, then?"

 _Geology._ It reminds me of the quarries, the deep caves in the mountainsides. Of falling asleep against the shady side of a block of marble on a hot afternoon. But Ignatius saved me from that, and I don't want to sound ungrateful. So I lie. "Metallurgy."

He nods, approving. "That's a respectable trade in District 2, our second biggest industry. You know, I was going to be a weapon-smith before I became a Peacekeeper."

Weapon-smithing. Working with steel and carbon and solid things again. No more training, no more fighting, no more broken bones. It doesn't sound too bad at all.

"And what about him?"

I blink at him. "Marcus?"

"No, the boy from your nightmares."

My pulse quickens. It's something we've only spoken about a couple of times. The first time, when I woke up screaming in the passenger seat of that truck in the mountains, nearly sending us skidding off a hairpin bend. The second when I was a rambling mess, broken arm swaddled against my body, before the morphling dragged me under.

"Have you seen him again?"

"No. Not since..." I gesture towards to the golden spear propped against the wall behind his desk.

"But you still get the nightmares."

"Yes. And they're getting worse. I used to just see shadows. Now I see...." I squeeze my eyes shut and the image of him is burned there, as vivid as it was the night before. Waiting, grey and motionless at the end of my bed, his bare torso drenched with blood.

"You know, I can help you to control them. If you let me. It will get better, Cato. You just need to trust me."

"How do you know?"

He sighs. "When I just was starting out as a Peacekeeper, I was posted in District 7. The second year I was there, we were deployed in an emergency. There had been an outbreak of ribicola. A whole pine plantation, contaminated. They sent us in to burn it down, the plantation, the lumberyard, even the town. All of it. We went in with biohazard exos and flamethrowers, the people didn't get any warning. Burn their tools, and them too – who knew how far the contamination had spread? Some of them fled up into the trees, thinking we were going after them, not the plantation itself. We got the order not to go in, that backup was on the way.

When they saw we weren't going in after them, more and more people followed them into the forests. Started herding their families, women and children, up into the trees. Then the firebombers came.

A lot of us saw ghosts, after that."

***

One night, nearly a month later, Marcus returns much later than usual. My training with Ignatius has been working, and I've actually slept for a few hours. He slams the door with a heavy thud, not even trying to be quiet. It's almost morning, and in the grey light he looks harassed, tightly strung from having been up all night. I've never seen him look this flustered.

"Why didn't you tell me that you killed someone?"

My heart slams to the bottom of my chest. When it starts again, it pounds as high as my throat. I try to breathe, to control my thoughts like Ignatius taught me. It doesn't work. My hands suddenly feel wet with blood. The shadows in the corners of the room draw closer.

"Who told you?" I ask.

"That doesn't matter. Is it true?"

"Yes."

"Fuck. Does Ignatius know?"

I exhale. "He knows. He was the one who saved me from the punishment."

Marcus sits at the edge of his bed, facing me. Turns on a lamp. The light glints in his hair, and suddenly the shadows seem to retreat.

"Please, Cato. You need to tell me everything."

So I do. As the grey morning creeps into our room, I tell him all about Titus, the son of the Foreman at the quarry. I tell Marcus all the things he called me, the things he said about my dead mother. I tell him about how on that particular day, all the miners had already washed up and gone to the canteen. Only he and I were left in the decontamination showers. We were both late from collecting our tesserae tokens. Suddenly, he stuck his hand out, and demanded mine from me.

"I said no, and he threatened me. He said, I've seen how you stare at me, and if you don't do what I say, I'll tell everyone.

He was right, I did stare at him. And I would've let him tell, I didn't care. My father was well-respected around the quarry. He would've defended me, and then it would've been his word against Titus's. But then he grabbed me by the arm, tried to force me onto my knees.

He was bigger than me, but I was strong. I don't think he knew how strong. Before he could get me down, I felt this rage build inside me, this thing I couldn't control. I shoved him back, hard. He slipped on the wet floor, and his head hit the ground." The sickening sound of bone cracking against tile echoes between my ears. I shut my eyes, rivulets of red already starting to bleed across my vision. "I don't remember much, after that."

"So that's why you're here? Because of an accident?"

I nod. "His father, the Foreman, wanted the harshest punishment. He kept yelling about a hanging. A death for a death, he said. There was nothing my father could say or do.

The Peacekeepers called for a Magistrate, and Ignatius was the one who came. There was no trial, just a lot of shouting. Then he put me in the back of his truck, said I would be taken to the encampment to for my execution. The Foreman would've wanted proof, I don't know how Ignatius convinced him. Two days later, I was here."

"And the nightmares...?"

I nod, again. "Are of him. When I see him, he looks as though I've just killed him. Bleeding. Dead. It's been months, but he won't leave me alone. I don't think he ever will."

Looking up at Marcus for the first time since I started speaking, I see him staring back, blue eyes deep and watery and lost.

"You're not going to tell anyone, are you?" I ask.

"No... Cato, of course not. This is your secret. Ignatius would get in trouble, too."

Sitting at the very edge of his bed, he places his hand on my leg. When he leans forward, the new sunlight sets a fiery crown in his golden hair. He presses his lips against mine.

I inhale sharply. First in shock, then again, slower, breathing him in. He's been up all night, but still smells sweet, of wood smoke and that thing he called chocolate.

Realising that I haven't yet pushed him away, he grasps my bare shoulder, pulls me deeper into the kiss. Our chests touch and our breaths mingle, hot and rasping. With a sweaty hand, I pull my sheets over my lap.

When he releases me, he looks away quickly. Then his eyes dart towards the window, the sunlight now pouring in.

"Shit! Drills."

In a blur, he yanks off his jacket, then his shirt, and for the first time I take notice of the rolling muscles in his shoulders, the flexing and tightening of his arms. He turns around, I don't know if he sees me staring.

"Come with me," he says.

I blink at him, confused. "But no one's supposed to see you fight."

"You've seen more of me than anyone, already." He laughs, and grabs at the sheets in my lap. "Please. Come with me."

***

He takes me up the stairs to the fifth floor, then across the tall galleries that connect the central tower to the Officers' wing.

"I thought we were going to drills? Isn't the Drillmaster waiting?"

"He can wait a while longer." Marcus knocks on a familiar door. _Captain Ignatius Thorne_.

Ignatius's look of surprise turns to confusion when he sees Marcus with me. Marcus pushes past the Peacekeeper, who raises his eyebrows as he ushers me inside. His two Lieutenants aren't here, as usual.

"Cadet Flint. To what do I owe the pleasure." The Captain's voice is flat. It's barely a question.

"Captain Thorne. Two things: first, I want my spear back," Marcus says. I look at him, stunned that he would dare speak so candidly to a senior officer. "It's been over a month. It was a gift from my father, and if you're not going to return it, I'm sure he'll give you some compelling reasons to do so."

The look on Ignatius's face has faded from shocked to bemused. "Right. And what else."

"Second, I want Cato to train with me."

This one catches Ignatius off guard. He glances over at me, my broken arm still in a sling. "I don't think Cadet Hadley is in any shape for drills –"

"When he recovers, obviously," Marcus interrupts. "In the meantime, he'll join my training, and observe."

Ignatius looks at both of us with hard eyes. "The Drillmaster is under specific orders to not let anyone watch you train."

"Then dismiss him from duty, and train us yourself. I'm sure Cato would prefer it. You already train him privately, why not both of us?"

The Captain turns his steely eyes towards me. He knows what I think about drills, how much I deride it when we talk about weapons-making, or masonry, or anything else instead. "Cato, is that really your preference?" his brow is deeply furrowed, but something in his voice tells me he'll go along with it, if I just say the word.

I look over at Marcus. And maybe it's because I can still taste his lips on mine, still feel the grip of his hand on my leg that made me drunk and giddy and bold, but I say, "yes, I want to train to be a Peacekeeper."

Ignatius sighs. Gives a tiny, almost imperceptible, shake of his head. "All right, then."

He stands from behind his desk, and we instinctively stand as well, hands behind our backs.

"Cadet Hadley, Cadet Flint. You will report at first bell tomorrow morning to the training yard behind the rear equipment sheds. Don't be late." He dismisses us.

I feel Marcus's hand against my back as we walk towards the door. From it, electricity races up my spine, all the way to my fingertips.

"Cadet Flint."

Marcus turns, his hand quickly falling to his side.

"This is yours," Ignatius says, holding out a golden spear. "Don't let anyone see it."

***

From that day on, there's nothing that can separate us. Every day he trains with Ignatius, and every day I watch from the low deck of the equipment sheds. The last of summer fades, and the days get colder. Marcus comes over to where I'm sitting amongst the fallen leaves and puts his jacket around my shoulders – my cast won't fit through the sleeve.

The day after my cast comes off, Ignatius gives me a sword. It's one of his, he explains, and the one he's most proud of. He shows me how he etched the fine geometric pattern that runs from pommel to hilt, creating a grip out of knurled metal. Explains the technique that produces the river of metal that decorates the blade. I can't keep it with me, of course, but during training it's mine to use. I'm lost for words, just turning the sword over and over again in my hand, while searching Ignatius's voice for any feelings of betrayal. If there are, he hides them well.

Training has run long today, and the sun is low in the sky. The days are short now, and without the sun's warmth the air quickly turns chilly. I help Ignatius carry a huge shield back to the equipment sheds and he raises his eyebrows, impressed by how much my strength has grown since my recovery.

"Where will you go for the winter holidays?" Marcus asks as we walk back down the hill.

It's not something I've thought about. I turn to Ignatius, who shrugs.

"He'll probably stay here. Me and some of the Peacekeepers are staying, too."

Marcus thinks for a moment, the autumn light russet-gold against the outline of his face. "How about coming to my father's house, with me?"

I look over at him and break into a smile, the way I do only when we're alone together. Then, remembering Ignatius, I quickly go back to watching my feet. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him grin, and his fingers brush against my back.

The sky darkens quickly, and rain starts to pour before we're able to reach the shelter of the Academy's deep porticoes. Upstairs, the mess hall is already noisy with voices and hundreds of knives and forks.

"Make sure you get cleaned up before you eat," Ignatius says as he leaves us.

Our uniforms are soaked through. "What if there's nothing left when we get there?" I ask.

"Then I'll get the kitchen to make us more."

I like it when he talks like this, though I'm still entirely not used to it. His easy confidence, the way he moulds the world to his will.

We track damp footprints from our room toward the bathroom at the end of the hallway. Lights flicker on automatically as we enter. The room is empty, everyone is at dinner. I realise I've never been here alone, only when it's jostling with seemingly every cadet on our floor. The bright, hollow room, the echo of our feet against the tiles, jolts an old feeling in me. I shuffle backward, thinking I've stepped in something red.

"Everything okay?" Marcus asks. He's holding his shirt in a bundle in front of his chest, broad and taught from the afternoon's exertion. When I look at him, I remember why the nightmares come less now, why when I wake in the middle of the night I no longer see shadows. Just his shoulders, rounded in the moonlight, next to me in whichever of our beds we've decided to share.

I nod, still dazed.

"Here," he says, and helps me peel my own wet shirt off, something he hasn't had to do since getting rid of my cast.

"You know you don't have to, anymore."

"Yeah. But I kind of miss it."

Our words mash together as he kisses me fiercely. His fingers flick below my navel, uncoupling belt and button and zipper in just a few quick movements. My own fingers fumble until his hands help them. Our thumbs hook into his waistband and push the remaining pieces of our uniforms into a soaked heap on the floor.

I feel his cock, warm and hard and wet when he presses against me. I take both of us together in my hand, and he gasps. Small, quiet sounds escape him that only I ever get to hear, so far from the proud, defiant voice of a boy who once wrestled a Victor in front of the whole nation. I grind myself against him, unbelieving that he could be so hard. He moans my name in my ear, begging.

Then our bodies are shuddering, leaning against one another, sweat and rain and come steaming off our the heat of our skin. I remove my hand, now slick and glistening in the too-bright light.

While my chest is still heaving, he pulls away, looking smugly at the wetness spread across our bellies, and steps under the shower.

Dinner is over by the time we make it to the mess hall, and the trays are being cleared. But when they see Marcus approach, they start setting out an officer's meal. Marcus points to me as well, and they reluctantly start serving another.

We eat heartily, one of the biggest meals I've eaten in my life. The hall is quiet, with only a few officers left. Some of them stop as they leave to salute to Marcus. He half-salutes back, his mouth still stuffed with food.

Ignatius appears at our table, and Marcus actually empties his mouth before greeting him.

"You're required on the fifth floor tonight. When you're ready," Ignatius says. His eyes shift uncertainly between Marcus and I. Marcus tells me many things, but even Ignatius is unsure if this is something I'm allowed to know.

Under the table, Marcus presses his leg against mine. Looks from Ignatius back to me, and beams. "We'll be there."

After dinner, he practically bounds up the stairs, taking them two at a time towards the fifth floor. I haven't seen him like this since we went to the infirmary to remove my cast. That night, he pinned me to his bed, his knees pressed against my arms as he sat on my chest, laughing that we didn't need to be so careful anymore.

Something is making him restless, but there's also excitement in his voice. "There's someone I want you to meet," he says.

I think about what he said earlier, about spending the holidays at his father's house, and then where he's leading me. I don't know why I've never thought of it. It makes sense now, where he goes in the middle of the night. Him, his father the Mayor, the Head Peacekeeper, the Captains and other officers, in the strategy room at the top of the Academy's central tower. Meetings that run until morning, where Marcus learns diplomacy, governance, everything he'll need to be Head Peacekeeper or Mayor himself some day.

Outside, the rain has turned into a storm, pelting against the tall, pointed windows of the top floor's gallery. Lightning illuminates the arches above our heads. I suddenly wonder if I washed well enough, whether in the closed room, all those important men will smell his come on me, still.

We enter a room with high ceilings and a large round table of black marble, surrounded by chairs. The walls are the same grey stone as the rest of the Academy, but hung with screens of every size and description. Those that are switched on show maps of the District, schematics, and constantly flowing text that is hard to follow. On one large screen, a Capitol newscaster mouths a report in muted silence, while images of the city's glowing, glittering streets flash around her.

I think of how I never want to go there, how the brightness will terrify me.

"Can you hear me?" Marcus's voice shakes me out of my reverie.

There's a harsh crackle of static as the room is suddenly flooded in blue light. "Marcus, son, it's good to see you well. Sit down, we have a lot to discuss."

I turn to see a huge projection above the centre of the table. More than twice my height, and glowing pale blue, the image of a tall woman with an angular face and short hair stares sternly across the room. She must've seen my movement too, because her head snaps around, feline-like, to look straight at me. The projection turns her eyes black, but the fury in them is all hers.

"Mother, this is Cato, my roommate." He pulls me closer to him. The warmth of his hand on my arm calms me somewhat.

"I know who he is," she hisses through closed teeth. "The fugitive murderer."

My breath catches in my throat. His mother, the Victor. It was her who found out, her who told him. Suddenly, I'm very conscious of Marcus's hand, still warm on arm. _What else does she know?_

Marcus seems unfazed. His eyes roll a little, like they've had this discussion a hundred times.

"Cato, this is my mother, Lyme."

My mind is still reeling. _I thought she was dead._ Maybe she is, and this is simply her consciousness brought back to life by some Capitol wizardry. I manage a stiff nod. "It's nice to meet you, ma'am."

Her image flickers. In the dark room, she casts a cold, blue glow across everything, dressed head to toe in a pale coat, her skin bleached white. In pictures and on television her hair is blonde, a few shades lighter even than Marcus's. Here, the projection turns her hair as shockingly white as her skin. Her eyes are spots of black, glaring out at us.

"Why have you brought him here?"

"I wanted him to meet you. And you to meet him."

"Well, now he has met me. Now he may go."

"I also wanted to ask if he could join us for the winter holidays."

"That is not for me to say." _Ask your father._ Her face seethes at the mention of the Mayor. She turns to me, and her scowl turns stormier. "Now, go."

I nod, and leave quickly. Once out in the hallway, it's like I can breathe again. The cacophony of screens, the high whining of the projector, Lyme's oppressive presence, had made even the large room feel airless.

Marcus is in there for what seems like hours. The Peacekeepers who pass by glance down but don't ask what a Junior Cadet is doing, sitting there on the cold floor of the officers' wing. _They know. And they fear her as much as I do._ One of Ignatius's Lieutenants takes pity on me, and brings me a hot drink. While I sip on it, the lights go out.

When he finally emerges, he's red-eyed and worn, like he usually is when he returns to our room. He shakes me from my sleep. 

"She wants to speak to you."

Outside, the rain has slowed to a regular patter against the windows.

Marcus stays in the hallway. I close the door, then turn to face the immense projection of Lyme. Her face seems to have softened, but then she sees me, and stiffens.

"My son tells me you are training with him." Her voice, thin and electronic, is tired and worn as well, but has lost none of its edge, like slate that has remained sharp under a river's current.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Do you wish to be a Tribute?"

"No, ma'am."

"Do you wish to be a Peacekeeper?"

I think for a moment about Ignatius's sword, about my training with Marcus. "I don't know yet." It feels like not enough of an answer, and she huffs in dissatisfaction, her long, pale grey coat rustling.

"My son will be a Victor," she says, just as matter-of-factly as he had, all those months ago. "When he is eighteen, he will Volunteer. He will compete in the Games, and he will be victorious. The Capitol and the twelve Districts will shout his name. He will be loved by all. Do you understand?"

I stand, dumbfounded. _He will be loved by all._ Does he really want that? He is loved enough by me, already.

"Do you understand me, Cato Hadley, fugitive wanted for murder, stowaway at the Academy only by the deceit and wile of one Captain Ignatius Thorne?"

The sound of my full name, my crimes listed in her artificial, metallic voice, makes my face burn.

"Yes, ma'am. I understand."

"Then you will swear that you will not distract him from his training. You are not to Volunteer, you are not to compete in the Games. You may train with him only because it humours him. You will never use your skills gained in your training with him in your favour. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, ma'am. I swear."

"Good." She unfolds her arms, starts to turn away. "My son will be the greatest Victor in the history of the Games."

And with that, her projection blinks into nothingness, plunging the room into darkness save for one hundred whirring, manic screens.

***

"What did she say to you?"

We'd walked the darkened corridors and stairs back to our room in silence. Only now, in the safety of this space that is ours alone, does Marcus dare to speak.

"She told me that you're going to Volunteer for the Games when you're eighteen," I say.

He almost laughs with relief. "I thought she might've told you something you didn't already know." He starts unbuttoning his shirt.

"She also banned me from ever being a Tribute, myself."

"Were you planning to?"

"No."

"Then everything's fine." He falls back onto his bed, kicks his feet up into the air to remove his boots and pants. He extends an arm to me and pulls me down beside him, placing my hand against his bare chest.

"Yeah, everything's fine."

Later, with him asleep in the crook of my arm, the sweat and wetness of a second round of our passion still glistening in the moonlight, I think back to that blonde boy on the dais, holding the crown of golden laurel. I think about the whole District roaring his name. The marvel in my own father's voice.

He will be a Victor. He will belong to them. Then, he will be loved by all.

_Two years. Two years until he is no longer mine._

And as I drift into sleep, his hand in mine, I no longer see the shadow at the end of my bed. Instead, the woman I see is tall and pale, with white hair and black eyes.


End file.
